Honouring a friend

I was thinking about a friend of mine. His name was Nim. Nim and I used to have fun together. We would have the best “da da” conversations: I’m not talking high art here, I’m talking literally we would say “da da” to each other. These were most fun in van where we could be as loud as we liked. Sometimes we’d go down to the market on the weekends. We’d roll up and down the market and I’d watch Nim smell the coffee. Sometimes we’d stop in at a stall and Nim would have a bit of a back massage. I’d watch his face screw up with the tension then suddenly release as the knot uncoiled. Then we’d go over to the grass and unhindered by OH&S I’d lift him out of his wheelchair and we’d lay around on the grass looking at the sky through the trees, playing our strange version of arm wrestles.
Nim died seven years ago. He taught me many things, but one of the things he taught me was about death; that when somebody dies part of what we miss is the person, and another part we miss is part of ourselves, who we were when we were with that person, because we can never be the same person again.
I can close my eyes and see Nim’s face and the crazy way his red hair rolled in furrows on his head particularly when he’d just had a number 2. I can close my eyes and almost feel our “da da” times together.

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